


A Long Way Home

by JJJunky



Category: Twelve O'Clock High (1964)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:59:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJJunky/pseuds/JJJunky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gallagher and Komansky find themselves a long way from home. Will they find their way back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long Way Home

A Long Way Home  
By JJJunky

 

With the communications receiver pressed firmly to his right ear, Major Harvey Stovall covered his left ear with his free hand and braced himself against the strong wind blowing across the control tower. As he listened to the reports of the returning aircraft, he anxiously inspected the tail of each B-17 as it roared overhead.

Slowed by a leg that had been damaged beyond repair over France in another conflict, in another war, General Britt limped up the stone staircase. "How many, Harv?"

"Twenty-one, sir."

"So we lost three." Britt sadly shook his head.

"Actually, only one, General. Phillips landed at a forward station in France, and McQueary ditched in the Channel. Air Rescue is on its way."

"Joe did it again, Harvey." Britt happily slapped Stovall on the shoulder. "A raid like this, and he only loses one plane, an acceptable loss, considering the target."

Harvey replaced the receiver and turned to face his superior. "Is it acceptable, General?"

"You know it is, Harvey. We expected to lose ten times that number," replied a puzzled Britt.

"What about when that one loss is Colonel Gallagher himself?"

Britt closed his eyes and leaned heavily on his cane. "How? Where?"

"Early reports show that flak took out both engines on the left wing after they dropped their bombs. Nine chutes were sighted."

"So Joe could've made it out? He may not be dead."

"Yes, but he'll probably be a POW."

"I can live with that." Softly, as though speaking to himself, Britt continued, "I'm not sure I could've lived with the alternative."

Harvey wished he could feel as optimistic as the general. But he knew Gallagher too well. After ordering the bail out, he would've stayed with the plane until his crew had safely exited. He should've been – would've been – the last chute; the tenth chute that was never sighted.

Obviously unaware of his companion's concern, Britt ordered, "Major, I want you to take command of the 918th until I find a replacement. Lord knows it isn't going to be easy to replace Joe."

"No, sir." As he watched Britt limp slowly back across the control tower, Harvey understood his superior's fears. They had all come to depend on Joseph A. Gallagher, probably more than they should have, considering the capriciousness of war. He had left a void that would be difficult to fill. Not only in the air.

 

ACT 1

With his good hand, Joe tried to keep from bouncing off his seat as the truck hit another pothole. Three days ago, he'd been flying the _Piccadilly Lily_ on a mission over Hamburg when flak killed Ryan, the ball turret gunner, and took out the number one and number two engines. With only one good wing, he'd been forced to order a bailout.

Of the nine men who escaped the burning aircraft, he was the only one who had been injured. The plane had started to spiral just as he was making his exit. A last minute instinctive attempt to catch his balance brought his left wrist down hard against the edge of the hatch. Even above the roar of the engines and the scream of the wind, he had heard the bone snap.

Upon reaching the relative security of solid ground, they realized they'd parachuted into the middle of the very town they'd just bombed. Only the quick intervention of Wehrmacht soldiers prevented serious injury by irate townspeople.

Three days of interrogation had followed with no food, no water, little sleep, and no medical attention. The wrist had swollen to almost twice its size and throbbed incessantly. All Joe could do was hope their destination, wherever it might be, would provide a more hospitable environment.

"Where do you think they're takin' us now, Colonel?" asked Connors, the tail gunner.

"If they abide by the Geneva Convention," said Gallagher, "a POW camp."

"I wouldn't trust a Kraut as far as I could throw him," muttered Komansky, his eyes focused disgustedly on the guard sitting across from him.

"Knock it off, Sergeant," Gallagher ordered. "Don't antagonize them. We need their protection. Those weren't love pats those people were giving us when we parachuted down."

A dark growth of beard couldn't hide the distress on the bombardier's young face. "Can you blame them? Did you see what I did to them?"

"You did your job, Robby," soothed Gallagher. "You pushed a button and destroyed another avenue for making war, which just might end it that much sooner. Then some of those people should, statistically, survive."

As the truck swerved around a corner, Komansky desperately tried to brace himself as well as his injured superior. "If this guy keeps driving the way he is, it won't be long before he becomes on your statistics."

"I just hope we aren't in the truck when he does," groaned Connors, rubbing the side of his head where it had bounced off the back wall.

The brakes squealed loudly as they were suddenly engaged, throwing the bomber crew to the floor. Only the guards, obviously accustomed to their chauffeur, retained their seats.

The pain in his wrist causing him to near black out, Gallagher leaned heavily on Komansky as he took deep steadying breaths. Strident commands of _raus, raus_ finally penetrated his pain-induced stupor.

"Come on, Skipper," Komansky encouraged, "I think ' _raus raus_ ' means get the hell out."

"Either that or the guy likes to imitate a dog," offered Connors.

With Komansky and his co-pilot Milner's assistance, Joe managed to slide from the truck. Standing on legs that were none too steady, he viewed their new home. Trees surrounded the camp, with the closest approximately three hundred feet away. Inside the compound, nine long buildings were aligned in neat rows of three. The grounds, barren and desolate, were encircled by a twenty-foot high barbed-wire fence.

Ordered around to the front of the truck, Gallagher found himself facing a large building. Unlike those he had just see, this one was in good repair and dust-free. As a German officer with the making of a Luftwaffe colonel on his shoulders stepped out the door, Joe proudly straightened. This man would never see the pain and despair he was feeling.

"Welcome to Stalag 23, gentlemen. I am Oberst Von Manthei, your commandant. There has never been an escape from my camp. If you attempt to do so, not only the perpetrator, but his friends will be severely punished."

Stepping forward, Joe protested, "Physical abuse was strictly forbidden at the Hague Convention. It is the duty of every prisoner to try to escape."

"You are new," Von Manthei snapped, "so this one time you will not be punished for insubordination."

Gallagher allowed his gaze to wander over the other officers and guards as he struggled to contain his anger. "My comment was not intended to be disobedient, Commandant, merely informative."

"When I need advice from a prisoner, I will ask for it."

Before Joe could reply, he was slapped sharply across the face. Losing his balance, he fell heavily against Komansky. Thus burdened, the sergeant was unable to join his comrades as they protectively advanced on the commandant. Regaining his senses quickly, Gallagher order, "As you were."

Watching the men reluctantly return to their positions, Von Manthei smiled. "It is good you have control of your men. Just remember who commands them now." His gaze shifting from Gallagher to Komansky, he continued, "This is an officer's camp. Those of you who are below the rank of lieutenant will be transferred as soon as transportation can be arranged."

"He means as soon as they can repair that train depot we just bombed out of existence," whispered Connors.

Though it was obvious he hadn't hear the remark, Von Manthei focused his eyes on Connors as he reiterated, "Do not disobey my rules. Punishment will be severe."

Gallagher felt disgust as he watched the tall, lean figure turn and, without another word, reenter the headquarters building. This was the first time he'd met an officer who commanded not with loyalty or experience, but with fear. This man was in as much danger of exploding as any bomb load Joe had ever carried over a target.

"Sir?"

With Komansky's hand on his arm urging him forward, Gallagher reluctantly followed a guard to the main gate. When the large doors were swung open, he noticed a small group of prisoners standing in the shadow of a nearby hut. Hoping to gain some useful information about their situation, he walked slowly across.

"Nice show, Joe."

The voice was hauntingly familiar. Surprised to find someone who apparently knew him, Gallagher quickened his pace.

"But if you really want to make Von Manthei mad, you should mention the Geneva Convention. He'll never forgive his government for signing it."

Joe stopped with a suddenness that almost caused Milner to run into him. "General? General Savage?"

Grinning broadly, Savage stepped out into the dim sunlight. "This is a helluva place for a reunion, Joe."

"Not exactly the Ritz, is it, sir?" said Gallagher, smiling, as he happily shook his ex-commanding officer's hand.

"It's not even a Harvey House."

Gallagher was surprised to find he had to blink several times to clear his vision. "We thought you were dead, General. Komansky was the only one of your crew to return to England and he didn't see any other chutes."

"I don't know how he did it, but my co-pilot managed to get me out in time. There was a pretty heavy cloud cover that day. We didn't know if anyone else survived either."

"When the war's over," Joe thoughtfully noted, "I think we'll find a lot of guys we thought dead in POW camps."

"I hope so," agreed Savage.

"Excuse me, General, sir," Komansky's tone was deferential but determined as he interrupted the reunion. "Colonel Gallagher broke his wrist when we bailed out three days ago."

"And hasn't received any medical attention," said Savage.

"Not so much as an aspirin, sir."

"Consider yourself lucky, mate." A broad English accent denoting the Yorkshire district continued, "Flying Officer Birkley at your service, sir."

"Birkley was in medical school when he decided to become one of the few," explained Savage.

"Only the first of what I hope will be many mistakes in my life." Birkley smiled good-naturedly. "I think you'll find that what I lack in equipment and training, I make up for with my bedside manner."

Savage nodded. "Don't let him fool you. He's a pretty damn good doctor. The Kraut doctor doesn't know a scalpel from a hemostat. Several men have gone over with relatively minor complaints and have returned with more severe ailments."

"I think he interned with Dr. Frankenstein," said Birkley.

Despite the worry and pain, Gallagher smiled. "All right, you've convinced me. You've got yourself a patient, Doc."

"Sir?" Komansky's uncertainty was obvious.

"So you have any better ideas, Sandy?"

Komansky reluctantly admitted, "No, sir."

Assuming command naturally, Savage suggested, "Joe, why don't you and your watchdog follow Birkley while I show the rest of your men where they can bunk down. If you feel up to it later, I'd like to get caught up with what's been happening with the group."

"Whenever you're ready, sir," agreed Gallagher before following the lanky "almost" doctor into the nearest hut. No matter how much the wrist hurt now, he had a feeling it was going to get worse before it got better.

 

Harvey was glad General Britt had called down, warning him of the imminent arrival of his new commanding officer. At lest he wouldn't be surprised as he had been when General Savage first took command. Though they had become close friends as well as associates, Harvey sometimes wondered what Savage's initial evaluation had been of his intoxicated new adjutant. Even the quick promotion to ground exec hadn't allayed his curiosity.

For the hundredth time in the last few minutes, Harvey checked his uniform for particles of dust and lint. This time he intended to make a good impression from the very beginning.

Surprised by his nervousness, he realized that by now he should be well acquainted with the procedure involved with indoctrinating a new commanding officer. This would be his fourth in this war. The first three had been different, not only in personality, but in command style. While good with the men, Keith Davenport had allowed his compassion for them do his job. Thus he had been loved on the ground, but inadequate in the air. Losses were high, causing the 918th to become known as the "hard-luck" group. Frank Savage had turned that around. He hadn't been afraid to step on anyone's toes. He hid his feelings behind a wall and allowed the force of his personality and his natural ability to command change the 918th from the worst group to the best in the 8th Air Force.

When Joe Gallagher took command, he had been given what seemed to be an impossible task -- fill General Savage's shoes. There had been much resentment. First, because of his age, and second, because he was the son of a Pentagon general. Some seemed to believe it was his name rather than his ability that had gotten him his command.

Harvey smiled as he remembered how quickly the skeptics had been silenced. Scorn changed to admiration and respect. While the boy may not have been able to fill Frank Savage's shoes, he could stand proudly beside them.

Another quick glance around the room told Harvey everything was in order, though it felt odd seeing Lieberfelt at Komansky's desk. Only Roberts' slow pacing gave a normalcy to the situation. The air exec had often paced before entering his commanding officer's presence to discuss a problem.

"Attention!"

The pacing came to a stop as Roberts' joined his comrades at full attention. Harvey snapped to his feet so fast he almost knocked his chair over. As his eyes fell on the roughly hued visage of his new commanding officer, he felt as though he'd been slapped in the face. While well-respected for his flying abilities, Colonel George McMichaels, from all reports, was not well liked by the men who were forced to serve under him. Still, Harvey reminded himself, Savage had seemed harsh and unbending initially, too.

Barely acknowledging the salutes of his subordinates, McMichaels crossed to the door leading into his new office. Pointing to the name plate, he snapped, "I want that removed immediately. It should've been replaced before my arrival."

Harvey flushed, recognizing the truth behind the reprimand. If he could've done it, he would've. Somehow, though, taking Gallagher's name off the door had seemed so final. A finality none of them had yet to accept.

The order was the first indication of how different the two men varied in command style. When Gallagher took over, Savage's name had been removed by subordinates who had collected all of the general's personal possessions. The door had then remained blank for almost a month. It seemed as though Joe had been telling the men that while he sat in the office, Savage still led the group. One morning, Harvey had walked in to find the new name plate firmly attached to the officer door. Though he was never sure who'd done it, he suspected it had been Komansky.

"Major Stovall, I want you in my office immediately."

Harvey jumped, wondering if the colonel had been forced to issue the order more than once. "Yes, sir."

Surprised that only he had been summoned and not the air exec, Harvey quickly, though reluctantly, entered the familiar office. His bearing more military than it had been since he reentered the service, he crossed to stand at attention in front of the scarred desk.

Handing Stovall a photograph of himself, McMichaels' ordered, "Please make the proper changes on the command board. Then bring me the files of all squadron commanders and lead pilots. There will be a mandatory meeting at 1430 hours for all officers, and another meeting at 1600 for all non-commissioned officers and enlisted men. No absences approved. Dismissed, Major."

Almost in a state of shock, Harvey slowly crossed to the command board. His hand shook as he sadly slipped Gallagher's picture from its slot and replaced it with McMichaels'. Instead of putting the used photo in the box provided, he palmed it in his left hand while saluting the colonel with his right before making a hasty exit. Gallagher might be gone, but he was by no means forgotten by the men who had served under him. McMichaels was going to have trouble if he thought he could run rough-shod over those feelings.

 

ACT II

Savage savored one of the cigarettes Milner had given him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had one that wasn't a vastly inferior German brand. It had been disappointing to find that, except for Komansky, none of Gallagher's crew had served under him when he commanded the 918th. It made him feel old and out of touch. It was a hard lesson to be reminded that life continued outside the stagnant backwater of the prison camp.

As he entered the block Birkley had turned into a modest hospital, Savage suddenly realized he was almost afraid to talk to Gallagher. This was the first time since he'd been shot down almost a year ago that he'd been incarcerated with another member of the 918th. How many friends had been hurt in that time? How many taken prisoner? How many killed? They were questions he might be better off not learning the answers to.

Pushing aside the curtain screening the area Birkley used as a treatment room, Savage sympathetically regarded the pale, shaking figure of his former subordinate. "How are you feeling, Joe?"

"Like I've just flown through flak in a paper airplane, General."

Birkley regretfully shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir. We still haven't found a way to smuggle in morphine."

The wrist had disappeared between two pieces of firewood, which were held securely in place by nondescript, roughly woven strips of what had once been a blanket. As Birkley secured the arm in a sling, Gallagher forced a smile to his lips. "Don't worry about it, Doc, at least it's not worse than it was when I walked in."

"Sergeant, why don't you get us all a cup of coffee," suggested Savage, a nod of his head showing Komansky where to go. "You'll find cups next to the stove at the far end of the building."

"Yes, sir," Komansky readily agreed.

Savage regretfully added, "Sorry, there isn't any cream or sugar."

"It looks like you could use both, sir," said Gallagher, obliquely referring to the extreme leanness of his former commanding officer.

"We all could. I'll never again take a piece of bread or a single crystal of sugar for granted."

Gallagher nodded his understanding as he pushed himself off the table, only to find himself standing on legs that were far from steady. Birkley and Savage were instantly at his side, guiding him to a chair.

"I think you better learn to walk before you try to fly, Colonel," suggested Birkley.

"What you lack in supplies, you make up for with sound advice, Doctor." His pale face sweating profusely, Gallagher gratefully accepted the coffee cup Komansky was pressing into his hand.

"I know it's not great," Savage apologized, "it's more water than coffee, but it's the best we can do."

"General, we haven't had any food or water for almost three days. To us, it's the best damn coffee we've ever tasted."

"Three days! Birkley--"

"I'm on my way, General," said the doctor.

"Why didn't you say something?" snapped Savage as Birkley rushed out of the room.

Frowning, Gallagher pointed out, "It's rather obvious you haven't been overfed yourselves, sir."

Savage angrily shook his head. "The meal we laughingly call dinner isn't for at least another five hours. Do you really think you could wait that long? We have emergency rations. They may not be tasty, but they'll at least make a dent in that hollow pit in your stomach."

Birkley rushed in with several slices of bread and precious, though small, squares of cheese. "Here you are, Colonel, Sergeant. Just try to imagine its Yorkshire pudding."

"If it's all the same to you, sir," said Komansky, his face revealing his opinion of the aforesaid dish, "I'd rather imagine it as hard bread and stale cheese."

Savage quickly took a sip of the weak coffee to hide the smile on his face while noting Gallagher was doing the same. "So, Joe," almost choking, Savage coughed sporadically as he continued, "who took command of the 918th after I was shot down?"

Color suffused the previously pale face. "I did, General."

Pride, rather than the anger he knew Gallagher was expecting filled Savage. This boy who had been unwilling to take responsibility for anything more than his own life until Savage took him in hand, now led an entire bomb group of almost two thousand men. "Congratulations, Joe."

"Thank you, sir." Gallagher's sigh of relief was clearly audible.

"I didn't recognize anyone in your crew," Savage thoughtfully noted. "Is there anybody from the old group left?"

"Not too many, sir. Manning was shot down over Berlin. Switzer got it on a shuttle raid to Russia. Reynolds and Bergoff made their twenty-five and went home. Daniels was posted back to the States on a disability. Roberts is still around; in fact, he's my air exec."

"What about pat Barstow and Bill Christie?" prodded Savage.

Gallagher closed his eyes, still finding the memory of the two deaths painful. "Just before D-Day, we were ordered to drop leaflets warning French civilians to hide in the countryside. We flew four missions a day for three days. Pat Barstow was shot down on the first mission. Bill Christie was killed on the second to the last."

Savage shook his head in shock and disbelief. He had been right when he questioned his own desire to know what had happened to his friends. A dream was often easier to live with than reality. Before he could find words to convey his sympathy, a young man burst into the small room.

"General Savage, an SS general just arrived. He's gone into Von Manthei's office."

Calmly, Savage replied, "Thank you, Wings. Let me know when he comes out."

"Yes, sir," Wings breathlessly agreed.

Amazed by the sudden appearance and disappearance of the young flight lieutenant, Komansky asked, "Is Wings really his name or do you call him that because he has wings instead of feet?"

"The former," supplied Birkley "But you're right, the name does suit him."

Though worried by the SS general's unexpected arrival, Savage forced his features to remain unchanged. They'd never had an SS officer of any rank visit a camp he'd been in before. He was convinced it had something to do with Gallagher. While half is mind worked on the problem, the other half continued the interrupted conversation. "How's Harvey?"

"He's still adjutant, but now he's also a pilot."

"Harvey's flying again! How did you accomplish that?"

"He got back into the cockpit after his son was reported missing in action. I haven't been able to get him out since."

"Poor Harvey."

"Unfortunately, he is -- was -- one of my best pilots." It was obvious Gallagher would have trouble thinking of his command in the past tense. "I have to fight to keep him on the ground. He wants to fly every mission."

"He isn't the only one," muttered Komansky, adding a hasty, "sir," after a quick glance at his commanding officer's face.

"General…" His face flushed from the unaccustomed exertion, Wings almost fell into the room. "Schnauzer just entered the compound with four guards. They're looking for Colonel Gallagher."

"Schnauzer?" Gallagher questioned.

"His name's really Zimmerman, but since he's in charge of the ferrets, the men have taken to calling him Schnauzer," explained Birkley.

Savage ignored the explanation and turned to Wings. "Is that SS general still here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why are they after you, Joe?" Stepping to the curtain, Savage kept an eye on the door as he waited for Gallagher's answer.

"I don't know, General."

When the door was suddenly, violently thrown open, Savage whispered, "I think you're about to find out."

Immediately noting the officer's presence, Schnauzer ordered, "General Savage, you will bring to me Colonel Gallagher at once."

"And if I don't?"

Pointing his gun at Wings, Schnauzer didn't blink. "I will shoot this man."

With his good hand, Gallagher quickly pushed past Komansky and Savage. "Hold your fire. I'm right here."

"You will come with me to Oberst Von Manthei's office."

Savage followed the small procession out the door and across the compound. "What does the commandant want with Colonel Gallagher?"

"My orders were to bring him, they do not say why." Zimmerman haughtily replied.

Just as the huge gates were about to be closed in his face, Savage ordered, "Tell Von Manthei I demand to see him at once." Desperately, Savage repeated, "At once, do you hear?"

 

Gallagher didn't look back at the faces he knew so well. He didn't want them to see the fear twisting his own features. There was nothing they could do to help him, and he knew Komansky in particular, would be exceedingly frustrated. So much so, he might do something foolish and endanger his own life. This was the one thing Gallagher would not allow. He would never again watch someone sacrifice their life for his.

Led into Von Manthei's officer, he stood before the ornate desk and cautiously saluted. "You wanted to see me, Colonel?"

"Not I," sneered VonManthei, "but an old friend of yours."

"Nice to see you again, Colonel Gallagher."

This time the voice was disquietingly familiar. Turning slowly, Gallagher was sure his heart had stopped beating as he gazed upon the craggy features that had stood over him once before as he had been interrogated. "Sorry I can't return the sentiment, Colonel von Datz."

"I'd be disappointed if you did." Crossing to a chair, von Datz sat down. "And it is 'General' now. I managed to turn a fiasco into a triumph. With your help, I may again be promoted."

"I'm sorry to have been of service."

His jaw revealing his fight for control, von Datz said, "Believe me, you will not have as fortuitous an escape this time as you did on our previous encounter."

The determination on von Datz' face didn't scare Gallagher. It was, after all, what he expected. However, the feral joy in Von Manthei's eyes sent a chill through him. If not already insane, the man was on the edge, and this confrontation could push him over. A bleak prospect, not only for himself, but for the other prisoners.

"Sit down, Colonel," suggested von Datz. "You know me and you know my methods. You can save us both a lot of trouble if you give me the names of Admiral von Kreuter's accomplices."

Easing himself down into a chair, Gallagher allowed his eyes to meet von Datz'. "Even if I could, you know I won't."

"Many have already been executed. Maybe all of them. Would you suffer for the dead?"

"If I have to, yes."

"Why?" 

"Because they suffered for me."

 

Savage paced impatiently in front of the entrance gates. He knew his actions were making the guards nervous, but he couldn't seem to stand still. It had been almost four hours since Gallagher had been led into the Kommandantur. Each hour felt like a year.

"You will come."

For a few brief moments, Savage was too shocked to obey Schnauzer's order. A gentle nudge from Komansky returned him to his senses. With eager steps, he followed the diminutive guard to the administration building. As he entered the outer office cubicle, Von Manthei slipped out of his officer and for a brief second, Savage caught sight of Gallagher. The dark head was bowed and dripping with sweat. The bright red color of blood stood out starkly against a pale face.

"General Savage, I have very important work to do. What is it you require?" Von Manthei demanded.

"I want to know why Colonel Gallagher was brought before you."

"That is none of your concern. You will return to the compound and stop annoying my officers or some of your men will suffer." Without another word, Von Manthei reentered his office. 

As he did so, Savage once again caught a glimpse of his friend. This time the SS general was leaning over his prisoner, shouting at him. "Tell me who helped you to escape--"

The door closed before he could hear more. Feeling angry and helpless, Savage almost ran back into the compound. The first face he saw was the first one he expected to see. "Sergeant Komansky, follow me." Taking for granted that the young man would obey, he walked quickly to the room that served him as bedroom and office. It was small, but as ranking senior office of the camp, he didn't have to share it.

"Did you see Colonel Gallagher, sir?" asked Komansky.

"Not clearly. It looked like the SS general was interrogating him for information concerning an escape. What did he mean? Escape from where and where?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Think, man!" Savage wished the room was large enough to allow him to pace. "You must know. Until he was dragged out of here, you haven't left Joe's side since you got here."

When Komansky hesitated, obviously thinking, Savage waited impatiently. Even if he uncovered the knowledge the young sergeant unknowingly possessed, would he do anything with it? Who did he sacrifice, nameless, faceless people he didn't know or a boy who had grown into a man he could call his friend?

"Earlier this month," Komansky finally revealed, "the colonel was flying a Mustang on a special mission and was shot down. He was interrogated by a Colonel von Datz before a group of sympathetic Germans helped him to escape."

"Did you say sympathetic Germans?" asked Savage in disbelief.

"Yes, sir. They were planning to assassinate Hitler, then surrender to the Allies. They came pretty damn close to succeeding, too. For a while there, we thought they had."

"What did Joe have to do with it?"

"His family were old friends of Admiral von Kreuter, one of the leaders of the movement. They wanted Colonel Gallagher to fly the admiral back to England in a stolen Heinkel trainer with the surrender papers. Unfortunately, an informer had infiltrated the group and told Colonel von Datz about the meeting. The admiral was shot during their escape. He was re-injured when the colonel was shot down just short of Archbury. The admiral died soon after reaching England."

His legs gave out and Savage found himself sitting on his bunk. "So this SS general thinks Joe can tell him the names of the other members of the conspiracy?"

"I guess so, sir." Komansky's worried gaze strayed to the window and the barely visible building beyond.

"Do you think he can?"

"I don't know, General. The only ones the skipper ever talked about were the admiral and his daughter."

"What happened to the daughter?"

"She was captured before they escaped to England. To save the mission, the admiral was forced to betray her as a traitor."

"Damn!" said Savage, awed by the courage he had not seen and could only imagine.

"Yes, sir."

"General!" Wings' voice echoed through the barracks. "They're bringing Colonel Gallagher out."

Somehow, Savage made it out the door before Komansky. He could feel the young man breathing down his neck as he raced out of the building and across the compound to the gate. Almost the entire population of the camp seemed to have congregated near the fence. Pushing his way through, Savage watched helplessly as two guards dragged an obviously unconscious Gallagher across to a truck. Throwing him inside, they quickly unshouldered their rifles and pointed them at the agitated prisoners.

His own pistol held ready, Schnauzer shouted, "The new men will step forward now."

Komansky exchanged a puzzled glance with Savage before complying with the request. A whispered, "Good luck" rang in his ears as the other members of his crew joined him.

Almost envious of the limited freedom, Savage watched the men march across to the truck. As they climbed into the vehicle with their commanding officer, Savage shifted his gaze and let it rest on Von Manthei. He had already suspected that the Luftwaffe colonel wasn't sane -- now he was certain of it. Blood on the man's hands and uniform proved he had been more than just an observer in Gallagher's interrogation. The smile on his face and the bounce in his step indicated he had enjoyed his role in the proceeding. A prospect that did not bode well for the prisoners left behind.

 

Climbing quickly into the truck, Komansky crossed to the motionless figure of his commanding officer. Pulling him a safe distance from the closing gate, he gently turned him onto his back. Even in the dim light, he could see the face was badly bruised. Blood had dried below the nose and along the corner of the swollen mouth. Desperately wishing he had Birkley's medical knowledge, Komansky said, "Hey, Sloan, you still got that handkerchief you always carry 'cause your mother would expect you to?"

"Sure, Sandy." Digging deep into a pocket of his flight suit, the navigator pulled out a white, meticulously pressed and folded square of cotton.

As Komansky reached for it, the truck jerked forward and quickly accelerated to a speed Sandy would not have thought possible with such a vehicle. One arm protectively cradled his patient as the other braced them against the violent swaying of the truck.

Inspecting a new bump on his head, Connors' disgustedly noted, "I see we have Wilbur Shaw at the wheel again."

Almost appearing as though he wanted to take his handkerchief back, though obviously revolted by the blood that now stained it, Sloan asked, "How's the Skipper, Sandy?"

"His pulse is strong. I think he'll be all right."

With this knowledge, everyone relaxed -- as much as they could in the wildly tossing vehicle. For the first time, Komansky could see the others had begun to wonder about their own fate. Some could no longer hide their fear, while others merely appeared curious. It looked to be a long uncomfortable journey.

 

They were entering the outskirts of what appeared to be a fairly large town when Gallagher finally began to return to consciousness. A low groan alerted Sandy to the new status. "Easy, sir. If the rest of your body looks like your face, I don't think you're gonna wanna move too fast."

Unable to completely stifle a cry of pain, Gallagher whispered, "Sound advice, Sergeant."

With Milner's help, Komansky gently eased Gallagher up to a sitting position, careful not to bump the newly reset wrist. Luckily it hadn't been badly abused and they had only needed to guide the bones back into place, at least that's what they hoped they'd done.

"Where are we?" the voice was weak in volume, but strong in authority and filled its listeners with confidence.

"In a truck driving through a town we don't know, to a destination we don't want to imagine, sir," replied Connors.

"How long have I been out?"

"At least two hours that we know." Hesitantly, Komansky asked, "Have you got any idea what they plan to do with us, Skipper?"

"I'm afraid they're going to use you to try to make me talk," admitted Gallagher.

"About those Germans who helped you escape that other time?"

Surprised, Gallagher demanded, "How did you know that?"

"General Savage made a nuisance of himself 'til Von Manthei would talk to him," explained Komansky. "He overheard von Datz asking you for the names of the conspirators. I told him the whole story."

Robby, anger blotching his pale face a deep red, shook his head in amazement. "You took that beating to protect Krauts and now you're asking us to do the same?"

"They aren't Krauts, Lieutenant." Gallagher calmly stated. "They're people who hate Hitler as much as we do and want this war over just as badly. They've risked their lives and the lives of their families in an attempt to put an end to this madness. Do you want me to destroy that possibility?"

"No, sir, it's just hard to believe," the young bombardier replied.

The shrill cry of air raid sirens rose above the loud roar of the truck's engine. Ignoring the guards' apparent unconcern, Gallagher ordered, "Everyone on the floor. Lay as flat as you can."

"That's our guys up there, I know it!" exclaimed an excited Milner.

"Whatever the target is," Connors said, scooting off the bench, "I hope they don't miss."

Several explosions brought the truck to a sudden halt. Komansky's fierce gaze bore down on Connors. "You were saying?"

"How was I supposed to know we were driving by the target?" Connors defended himself. "So shoot me."

Gesturing toward the sky, Komansky said, "I won't have to. It looks like our boys gonna do it for me."

Another explosion shook the truck, sending shrapnel through the canvas sides and into the guards. One died instantly while the other fell out of the truck, where fragments from another bomb left him decapitated.

No one moved or spoke as the bombardment continued. Sandy wished his comrades success while alternately hoping the bombs would miss the small, seemingly insignificant truck.

The sound of the last explosion had barely faded before Gallagher was ordering, "Komansky, Connors, get outside and see if there's a chance to get away." As the two men scrambled to obey, Gallagher cautioned, "Move slowly, there might be some trigger happy guard out there who didn't get his fool head blown off."

"He had to say that," Connors groaned as he slowly followed Komansky.

"Would you rather have gotten your fool head blown off?"

Connors conceded, "Good point."

His eyes avoiding the gruesome sight of the decapitated guard, Komansky climbed out of the truck. Glancing cautiously from side to side, he crossed to the left of the battered truck while motioning Connors to take the right. As he walked forward, Sandy noted that the vehicle's cab appeared to be relatively unscathed. Looking inside, he saw the driver slumped over the wheel. Connors placed his hand against the still figure and shook his head before moving on.

In front of the truck was the command car containing von Datz and his driver. Komansky was not sorry to find the general had taken a piece of shrapnel to the heart. He quickly relieved the dead man of his sidearm with one hand while searching for the man's wallet with the other. Inside the wallet was a folded piece of paper. The only word Sandy recognized was Gallagher. Slipping it into his pocket, he unrepentantly relieved the man of the small fortune he was carrying.

His eyes roving over the deserted, partially destroyed buildings surrounding them, Komansky asked, "How's the driver, Connors?"

"Believe it or not, he's alive, but he won't be for long if he doesn't get medical attention."

"Do what you can and then get back to the colonel."

No longer menaced by the vision of a trigger-happy guard, Komansky ran back to the truck. Jumping inside, he found his eyes were no longer accustomed to the dim light. Straining to see his superior, he said, "They're all dead, Skipper, except von Datz' driver and he's badly wounded. We're surrounded by old, mostly bombed out buildings. Plenty of places to hide."

"If you want to try to escape, we better to it before the all-clear sounds, Colonel," suggested Milner.

Komansky nodded agreement. "The captain's right, sir."

"The rest of you go ahead. I'll follow in a minute," ordered Gallagher.

"Sir--"

"I said in a minute, Sergeant."

As his eyes finally adjusted to the light, Komansky saw Gallagher was kneeling next to the motionless figure of the bombardier. A large piece of shrapnel protruded from the man's lower back.

Blood spilling from his mouth, Robby whispered, "You'd better go, sir. I've had it."

"Don't be a quitter, Robby." Gallagher growled. "If you want to live, fight for it."

"I'm too tired, sir. All I want to do is sleep."

Defeated, Gallagher bowed his head. "That's okay, too. Go ahead and sleep."

"Poetic justice wouldn't you say, sir? The words spoken from lips a soft shade of blue were barely audible.

The all-clear siren sounded as Gallagher leaned forward and closed the sightless eyes. "Sleep, Robby, sleep. There'll be no more guilt and no more pain."

Anger warred with grief, but there was no time to indulge either emotion. Tugging gently on his commanding officer's good arm, Komansky said, "We have to go, Colonel."

Without a glance at the body lying near his feet, Gallagher nodded. "Lead the way, Sergeant."

 

The ambulance sirens had long since faded and darkness was quickly encroaching upon the once sunny sky. Gallagher gathered his men close around him. "None of us are going to make it back to England if we stay together. As soon as it gets dark enough, I want you to slip out of there in ones and twos and try to make it to safety on your own."

"What about you, Skipper?" asked Milner.

"I want no more hostages they can use against me," Gallagher explained. "I'll be traveling alone from here on."

Rising to his feet, Sloane meticulously brushed the dust off his flight suit. "Where should we go, sir?"

"Wherever you think you have the best chance to escape."

"How far do you think we can get," Sloane pointed out, "with no money, no food and a language barrier?"

"Not far with that attitude," snapped Connors.

Komansky pulled out the bills he had stolen. "Compliments of General von Datz," he said as he divided the money evenly among the eight men.

"I think it's dark enough now," Gallagher decided. "The first group better be on its way."

Glancing around at the hesitant men, Milner nodded. "That's you and me, Sloane, since I doubt anyone else will take you. Get your butt in gear and let's get out of here." As he rose to his feet, Milner paused and held his hand out to Gallagher. "Good luck, Colonel."

"Good luck to us all, Captain." Gallagher firmly shook his co-pilot's hand. "The first drink back in England is on me."

Milner and Sloane quickly faded into the shadows. A short time later, Matthews and Wrightman followed. Connors and Schmidt had taken only a few steps when the tail gunner stopped. "You wanna come with us, Sandy?"

Komansky shook his head. "No thanks, Jim. It wouldn't be long before I'd be surrendering to the Germans just to get away from you."

"I didn't think you would," said Connors, his eyes fixed meaningfully on Gallagher. "Good luck."

The soft echo of their steps had barely disappeared before Gallagher was suggesting, "You better be on your way, Sandy."

"I'm ready whenever you are, sir."

"I thought I made myself clear, Sergeant," Gallagher angrily reiterated. "I will be traveling alone."

Komansky defiantly faced his commanding officer. "No, sir, you won't. If we get out of this alive and if we get back to England, you can court-martial me for disobeying an order, insubordination and any other charges you may wish to place, but I'm going with you."

In the face of such opposition, Gallagher had no choice but to surrender, though he did not do so graciously. "You haven't heard the last of this, Sergeant."

"Whatever you say, sir."

Wondering what he had done to deserve such loyalty from a man who guarded his independence with a tenacity unmatched by anyone he had ever met, Gallagher said, "We better get going. With any luck, we can be out of town and into the countryside by morning."

"If you don't mind my asking, sir," Komansky inquired as he helped Gallagher to his feet, "where are we going?"

"The Netherlands. Friesland to be exact. Before the war, I worked on a fishing boat that sailed out of Wierum."

"You worked on a fishing boat?" Komansky's surprise was obvious.

"I do know how to do a few things other than fly airplanes, Sergeant. Before I went to West Point, I backpacked through Europe. Fishing was only one of the jobs I did to pay my way."

Unobtrusively helping his superior across the littered floor, Komansky asked, "This fisherman, do you think he'll help us?"

"If he's still alive, he'll help," Gallagher confidently stated. "Friesians don't take kindly to other people trying to tell them what to do. Pieter would help us simply because he was told not to."

"Even at the risk of his own life?"

"They're a stubborn people."

"I'll bet those Krauts have their hands full."

"I know how they feel," growled Gallagher. "Are you sure you're Polish and not Friesian?"

 

ACT III

Komansky shivered as the early autumn breeze blew across his damp clothes. Crouched beneath the klokkenstoel, he waited patiently for Gallagher's return. It amazed him that they had come so far without being caught, though it had taken over a month to do so.

Traveling mostly at night, they found shelter among the trees or in deep hollows. Luckily, most of the journey had been done during the heat of the summer, late July and August. They had discarded their flight jackets as too conspicuous. Lately, however, they had found the thin flannel jackets they had stolen from a remote farmhouse were becoming ineffective against increasingly chill autumn winds.

To stave off starvation, they stole food, leaving money when they could. The meals had not been plentiful or often, mostly consisting of wild berries and raw vegetables. Sometimes, when the hunger pains were at their worst, Komansky was tempted to turn himself in. Even the privations of a prison camp were preferable to the conditions they were forced to endure. Only the paper in his pocket with Gallagher's name on it held him back. Though he couldn't speak German, he somehow knew what had been written. If Gallagher fell into enemy hands again, Sandy was certain he would be executed. Sandy slipped his hand into his pocket and lightly gripped the German Luger he had taken from von Datz. He would do whatever he had to do to keep his superior from falling into the hands of the SS.

"Sergeant?"

The whispered inquiry and a hand on his arm, made Komansky jump. Gripping the Luger tightly in his hand, he turned to face the shadow. He had not seen or heard the man's approach. His senses were even more depleted than he originally believed. A development that could get them killed.

"You come, Sergeant."

Any thought of disobeying the quiet order quickly evaporated. The man could not have known Komansky was a sergeant unless Gallagher had sent him. "Lead the way, Mac."

The stranger shook his head and whispered in a voice that verbalized the seriousness of his reply. "I am not Mac. My name is Pieter."

"Right, lead the way, Pieter." Komansky smiled, realizing that after a month of life and death decisions, he had enjoyed the meaningless exchange.

As Gallagher and Komansky had done on the long trek to Wierum, the two men avoided the small hills -- terps Gallagher had called them -- where homes and churches had been built. Keeping to the banks of the canals, they walked slowly, listening for the dangers hiding in the dark of the night.

The route they followed led them further and further from the sea and its means of escape. Worried over this unexpected development, Sandy could no longer contain his curiosity. "Where's Gallagher?"

"He is safe, as you will be soon."

No additional information was offered as the huskily built man turned to resume his journey. Wondering if he was walking into a trap, Komansky reluctantly followed. Where else could he go?

It wasn't long before he lost all sense of time and direction. Walking mechanically in an exhausted stupor, he stopped suddenly as arms seeming to reach to the moon reflected darkly against the lightening sky. A gentle hand on his arm pushed Sandy to his knees. Bending low so they too would not be silhouetted, the two men hurried across the open space separating them from the canal they'd been following and the old windmill offering a relative safety.

Once inside, Pieter said, "You wait here. I be back tonight."

Before Komansky could protest, the taciturn man was out the door and retracing his steps to the ditch. Frustrated and alarmed by the sudden desertion, Komansky reluctantly began to explore his temporary refuge.

The lower floor contained nothing but the remnants of rusty unidentifiable bits of machinery. Moving cautiously, he began to climb the stairs leading to the upper floors. It wasn't only fear of Germans that made him move warily, but the condition of the staircase.

The next few landings resembled the first except for the addition of pieces of clothing and tiny bits of paper. It was finally at the top that he made the discovery that eased the fear from his mind. "Skipper!"

Slumped against the far wall, the thin, dirty figure remained motionless. The slight rise and fall of the sunken chest reassured Sandy that his superior was sleeping naturally. Curiosity and the need for reassurance overwhelmed his normal compassion. Crouching by the sleeping man's side, e gently placed a hand on Gallagher's uninjured arm. "Colonel?"

The length of time it took, plus the necessity of a gentle shake told Sandy his commanding officer's condition was steadily worsening. Even on the long trek across Germany and the Netherlands to Wierum, the slightest sound had awakened him. Now, all that he had endured seemed to be catching up with him. The touch barely appeared to register though the head rolled from side to side and but the eyes remained closed.

Most of the cuts and bruises Gallagher had sustained during his interrogation had long since faded. Only the memory of the pain remained. Brief periods of rest were often broken by nightmares. Just recently, Sandy had discovered that he was a participant in those nightmares. In his mind, Gallagher would "watch" as von Datz repeatedly struck Komansky across the face and body -- abusing the sergeant much as Gallagher had been assaulted. During these episodes, it was a struggle to prevent the colonel from inflicting further injury upon himself as he needlessly attempted to "defend" his flight engineer and friend. Fearful Gallagher had again entered this netherworld, Sandy shook the thin shoulder harder. "Skipper?"

The dark head rolled sluggishly against the wall before the eyes slowly opened. "Sandy, I'm glad you made it." The voice was low and raspy.

Glancing around, Komansky saw a sack sitting in the corner. The absence of dust told him it had not been there long. Keeping his fingers crossed, he quickly examined its contents. A sigh of gratitude escaped his lips as he pulled out a container of water. The ache in his own stomach intensified as the smell of fresh bread assaulted his nostrils. Ignoring the growl of protest from the empty cavity, he quickly returned to Gallagher's side, dragging the sack behind him. Placing the pitcher against dried, cracked lips, he advised, "Swallow slowly, sir."

When he'd finally drunk his fill, Gallagher weakly pushed the container away. His voice was stronger and his eyes more alert as he expressed his gratitude. "Thanks, Sandy. I'm glad Pieter found you. He wouldn't let me go with him. He insisted on going himself while his oldest son, Eugene, brought me here."

"It's all right, sir. As soon as he called me 'Sergeant,' I knew you had sent him."

"I hoped you would."

Unable to resist the tantalizing odor any longer, Komansky pulled out the loaf of bread. Breaking it in half, he pressed the larger piece into Gallagher's good hand while stuffing the remainder into his own mouth. When his hunger was partially sated, he asked, "Will Pieter be able to help us get back to England?"

"Yes, but not the way I had hoped. The Germans have got almost the entire coast sewn up tight. No one is allowed out in their boats. If one were discovered missing, the entire village would be punished."

"You said almost the entire coast, sir?"

"Apparently there is an escape route from Delfzijt to Sweden."

Komansky knew that this was not a route Gallagher wished to contemplate. Once in neutral Sweden, they would be interred and their part in the war would be over. As sick as he was of watching his friends die, Komansky knew he would feel worse if he wasn't there beside them when they needed him, whether it was in life or in death. "That won't work. Is there another way back to our lines, sir?"

"Maybe." Gallagher smiled his understanding. "Pieter says the Allies liberated Maastricht a few days ago. They've finally crossed into the Netherlands. He thinks he can get us as far as Arnhem. He has a delivery to make there tomorrow, so he has passes that will allow him to travel unchallenged."

"Is Arnhem far from Ma . . . Ma . . ." Exasperated, Komansky substituted, "That other town?"

"About 150 kilometers. The Belgium border is a little closer, but it's heavily guarded."

"Hey, if we're lucky, maybe we can just sit in Arnhem and let our guys come to us."

"It would be nice," Gallagher wearily agreed.

Replenished and slightly sleepy, Komansky reclined against the wall next to his CO. Picking bread crumbs from his thin flannel jacket, he asked, "How does Pieter hope to get us past the checkpoints?"

"Pieter is a skilled wood craftsman. He--"

"I thought you said he was a fisherman," interrupted Komansky.

"It was his uncle who taught me how to work a fishing boat." Gallagher's eyes closed as he sadly continued, "Pieter said the Germans killed his aunt and uncle when they discovered Jews hiding in his uncle's windmill."

Suddenly some of the things Sandy had seen on the other floors made sense. "This windmill?"

"Yes."

Reluctant to contemplate the fate of the previous occupants, Komansky said, "You were explaining how Pieter planned to get us out."

"Pieter builds furniture, if you can supply the wood. One of the many things the Germans have no trouble providing if it's for something they want. There's a general in Arnhem who's contracted for an armoire. Pieter is going to deliver it tomorrow. I'll hide inside and you'll go along as his son, Eugene. You're much the same height and coloring. If they don't look too closely, there should be no problem."

"There is one," said Komansky. "I don't speak Dutch."

"Neither can too many Germans."

"What if we run into a member of the N.S.B.?"

"I won't matter. Even the Dutch don't understand Fries. Pieter will teach you a few sentences that should convince a non-Frieslander."

"And if he is a Frieslander?"

"Then we've had it," Gallagher softly stated.

 

Harvey felt old as he contemplated the personal effects sitting on the desk in front of him. A watch, a slim gold band, and an engraved pen with the simple inscription, "Your Friend, JAG." He'd had to write many letters to parents, wives and sweethearts -- but this was one of the hardest. When a man dies in battle, his family is usually left with a sense of pride that at least makes the death bearable. A senseless death only makes the pain harder to accept. At least that's the way it was for Harvey. Now since McMichaels took command, every time the planes went into the air, Harvey was prepared for some of them not to return. His normal, optimistic nature died when Colonel Gallagher had been shot down.

Major Jonathan Roberts and twenty-nine other brave men had been sacrificed needlessly. They had battled weather, flak, and fighters only to run out of fuel and forced to ditch in the North Sea. While some had escaped their skinning aircraft in life rafts, none had survived the freezing night on the frigid water.

Slipping off his glasses, Harvey gently wiped the moisture from his eyes. If McMichaels had followed the flight plan, Roberts would be sitting beside Harvey now, joking with him, helping him forget that Gallagher no longer occupied the commanding officer's chair.

It had been a month since the colonel had been shot down. Not a day went by that Harvey didn't think about his youthful, former group leader. He had tried not to make comparisons, but had been unsuccessful. There was no question, Gallagher would've been aware of exactly how much fuel each of his planes normally consumed. He would've known the older planes had smaller gas tanks and could not make it home after a fifty mile diversion.

Unwilling to jeopardize the integrity of the formation while in enemy territory, Roberts had unhesitatingly followed the group leader's course change, even though he had to know he wouldn't make it to Archbury. This was the type of courage Harvey found difficult to convey on paper. Roberts and the twenty-nine other courageous men would never receive silver stars or the recognition of their government, but they would always have the respect and gratitude of their peers. An honor bestowed only on those who had earned it.

"Attention!"

Harvey quickly climbed to his feet, almost dropping is glasses in his haste. With a face flushed red with anger or exertion, General Britt entered the office, followed closely by Colonel McMichaels.

"Major Stovall, please join us in Joe's office," ordered Britt.

"Yes, sir." Harvey couldn't help but smile, even Britt couldn't forget the office's former occupant.

Crossing to the chair behind the desk, Britt slowly lowered himself into it. "All right, Colonel, I want to know what happened up there yesterday. Why you lost three airplanes and thirty men over the North Sea."

"I thought there might be a large enemy fighter patrol near where we were briefed to cross the coast. To avoid it, I ordered a navigation change," explained McMichaels. "I was trying to save lives, General."

"Why didn't you bring up the problem a briefing?"

"I only became aware of the possibility when we flew to Kiel, sir."

Unappeased, Britt demanded, "Didn't your fighter escort pick you up?"

"Yes, sir." McMichaels nodded. The movement of his head was the only break in his rigid stance. "I still felt it was safer for the group as a whole to avoid a confrontation."

"Yet you lost three planes and thirty men when they ran out of fuel."

"In my opinion, that is an acceptable loss, sir, considering we could've lost many more to enemy fighters."

Looking as though he'd been struck in the stomach with a clenched fist, Britt softly requested, "Would you mind leaving us alone for a few minutes, Colonel?"

"Of course not, sir." A puzzled gaze settled on Stovall before McMichaels reluctantly made his exit.

"What do you think, Harvey?"

"I wasn't on the mission, General. I don't believe I can make an honest assessment."

Britt wearily leaned back in the chair and put his aching leg on the desk. "I don't just mean yesterday's mission. I want to know what you think of the group as a whole."

"You already know how I feel about the 918th, sir."

"I know how you felt when Frank and Joe were in command. Can you honestly say you feel the same today?"

"About the men and what they're doing? Yes, sir, I do."

"And the leadership?"

"General, I don't know if I can be impartial or objective. Look who I'm comparing Colonel McMichaels to. Both General Savage and Colonel Gallagher were exceptional commanding officers. Neither would be easy to replace."

"Joe was able to succeed Frank with no appreciable difference," Britt pointed out.

"But Joe was trained by the general, sir. The men had already worked and lived with him. He made very few changes when he took command."

"Then you don't think I should recommend that McMichaels be replaced?"

Though he desperately wanted to urge Britt to do so, Harvey knew in all honesty he couldn't. Though McMichaels wasn't the type of leader Stovall would choose to follow, he did get the job done. Which, after all, was the number one priority. "Not unless you can pull a General Savage or a Colonel Gallagher out of your hat, sir."

"You know what's funny, Harvey? A couple months ago, I would've considered three planes an acceptable loss, too. Now all I can do is wonder how many potential Joseph Gallagher's we lost."

 

ACT IV

The old adage "out of the frying pan and into the fire" had never been more aptly applied than the situation in which Gallagher now found himself. Though there had been several close calls, they had reached Arnhem safely -- only to make their first error in judgment since they had been shot down. Exhausted from the rough, tension-filled journey, they had decided to rest a day in a place they found near the river south of Arnhem. Now that day may not only cost them their freedom, but their lives.

Before they fully understood what was happening, they found themselves in the midst of the First British Airborne Division fighting a confused battle over a bridge and waiting for reinforcements that were late in arriving. This delay had allowed the enemy to attack the lightly armed infantry with hastily assembled tanks. Gallagher and Komansky had taken refuge with the other survivors in the perimeter surrounding the Hotel Hartenstein at Oosterbeek. Ammunition and food parachuted to the besieged men had fallen almost entirely into enemy hands, making their situation desperate.

Lines of pain etched across the once smooth brow, Gallagher pulled the worn flannel jacket more snugly across his thin frame. "How many rounds have you got left, Sandy?"

"Not enough," Komansky dispiritedly replied, shrugging his shoulders.

"Your statement is ambiguous yet succinct, Sergeant."

"Sir." Showing more animation than he had in hours, Komansky asked, "Did you ever consider joining the Army? Following in your brother's footsteps?"

"Only when I wanted to scare my father," smiled Gallagher. "But I grew up listening to my grandfather's stories about the dogfights in World War I while Pres listened to our other grandfather's stories about the trenches. I knew I wouldn't be happy anywhere but in the air."

"Then what made you decide to be a bomber pilot instead of flying a fighter?"

"There's something about a B-17 that gets into your heart and doesn't let go. And, as important as the fighters are to us personally, it'll be the bombers that'll end this war. We destroy Hitler's ability to make planes, guns, and bombs. We destroy the fuel that powers his tanks, his submarines and his airplanes."

Gesturing out into the darkness shrouding the tanks threatening them, Sandy said, "I wish we'd done a better job."

"We did as good a job as we could with the limited number of men and planes we were allocated."

His eyes raised to the dark, cloudy sky above, Sandy shook his head in wonder. "When we'd hit a heavy flak bed or the fighters would scream down at us from out of the sun, I used to wish I'd joined the Infantry instead of the Air Force."

"And now?" asked Gallagher.

"I'd give anything to be in the Lily's turret. At least there I could fight back. Here they want me to pierce six inches of steel with a paper knife."

"Now you're exaggerating, Sandy."

"Not by much, sir."

"Sergeant Komansky?"

The soft call made both men snap into position, rifles aimed toward the sound. Ignoring the pain that made his body sweat and his muscles tremble, Gallagher waited for the password identifying their visitor as friend or foe.

"Piccadilly Lily."

A deep sigh of relief made Gallagher slightly dizzy as he allowed his rifle to slip to a position more comfortable for his one-armed grasp. "What can we do for you, Lieutenant Smythe?"

"The major would like to see Sergeant Komansky on the double, sir."

Puzzled that only Sandy's presence had been requested, Gallagher nonetheless nodded agreement. "Very well, Lieutenant. You better be on your way, Sandy."

"No, sir." Obviously suspicious of the strange summons, Komansky shook his head. "Not until I know where I'm going and why."

"The major will explain all that," Smythe replied.

"I'd rather hear your explanation, sir."

"This is an order, Sergeant, not a request."

"You can court-martial me right here, sir, but I'm not moving until you tell me why."

Indecision played across the youthful features before Smythe said, "In precisely ten minutes, our chaps on the other side of the river will commence bombarding the German positions. Under its protection, we'll try to cross the river in boats."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"It might sound strange," Smythe sarcastically stated, "but we thought you'd like to come with us."

Hope flared before suspicion extinguished it. "What about Colonel Gallagher?"

"I'll be right behind you, Sandy," Gallagher hastily avowed obviously knowing his statement was a lie.

"Then why can't we go together?"

Exchanging a brief glance with Gallagher, Smythe said, "There isn't much time or room. The wounded are being left behind."

"You're not leaving Colonel Gallagher." The statement was not a plea but an assertion.

"Don't you see, Sergeant, it's too dangerous. The river is choppy and cold. If a boat overturns, they won't have a chance. They'll be safer under German care."

"The others might. Colonel Gallagher won't. The SS were taking him to their headquarters for interrogation when we escaped. If they get their hands on him again, they'll kill him."

Placing his good hand on Komansky's shoulder, Gallagher gave a gentle squeeze. Forcing a smile, he said, "It's all right, Sandy, von Datz is dead. There probably isn't anything to worry about now."

"I'm not leaving you, sir," Komansky stubbornly emphasized.

Finding himself in a quandary once again, Smythe asked, "Are you sure the SS are after you, Colonel?"

"I have a letter," Komansky quickly replied as Gallagher shook his head in denial. Searching the pockets of his tattered jacket, Sandy pulled out the paper he'd taken from von Datz. "It's in German, so I can't read it, but I'm sure it's ordering the colonel's execution."

"Let me see it," said Smythe. Shielded by the protecting wall, he flicked his cigarette lighter and quickly scanned the report. Snapping the lighter closed, he neatly refolded the paper before handing it back to Komansky. "You're right; it is an order to execute Colonel Gallagher."

"That doesn't change anything, Lieutenant," said Gallagher.

"Yes, sir, it does," Smythe contradicted. "I cannot be your executioner, sir. I'll find you a place on a boat if I have to swim across myself."

"You'd drown."

"At least I'd have a chance, which is more than you'd have if you stay here."

With Komansky on one side and Smythe on the other, Gallagher awkwardly rose to his feet. The artillery barrage commenced, briefly lighting the dark night, almost blinding them with its sudden brilliance.

"I'd give anything right now for a sky full of fighters, an oxygen mask frozen to my face and frostbitten feet," sighed Gallagher, looking longingly up into the starless night.

Sandy's eyes followed his superior's. "I'd want one more thing, sir."

"What's that?"

"You in the pilot's seat, Skipper."

 

Harvey anxiously scanned the sky for the single B-17. For once, the fortress wasn't delivering death, rather it was delivering life. Two lives that were entwined in the day-to-day existence of the men who comprised the 918th Bomb Group. Even a car driving up beside him couldn't pull his gaze from the gray skies overhead.

"Any sign of them yet, Harvey?" asked General Britt, searching the sky as he stepped out of his car.

"It should be any minute now, General."

Glancing around at the crowd circling the Bucking Bronco's hardstand, Britt smiled. "I can see there won't be much work done in this group today."

"We aren't all playing hooky, sir." Harvey pulled his gaze from the sky and glanced toward the ops building. He was bitterly disappointed that he had not been allowed to fly to France and bring back his friends. McMichaels considered him too old to fly combat, even though this was a mission of mercy. A mission every man on the base had volunteered for, only to see the colonel thoughtlessly assign Mead. Mead's crew was made up of replacements and had only been with the group for ten days. Due to bad weather, they had not yet flown a combat mission. Even a milk run, was not for an inexperienced crew.

"There she is!"

Harvey sighed with relief and returned his gaze to the sky. As the tiny dot grew nearer, he found himself trembling with excitement. A quick glance at Britt and the other men gathered around the hardstand showed faces flushed with joy and anticipation. Breaths were held as the plane began its descent. So many things could go wrong even during the most routine landing. Harvey smiled as he imagined the nervousness of the young pilot forced to show his abilities to a man who was almost a legend. In the last ten days, Mead would've heard the stories that made Colonel Gallagher bigger than life. A commanding officer worthy of his men's devotion.

The Bucking Bronco lived up to her name as she bounced twice before coasting to a smooth stop. Grateful that his rank afforded him some privileges, Stovall slowly followed the general to the right waist hatch as the B-17 taxied onto its hardstand. A ground crewman opened the door to reveal a familiar figure. Though the body was badly emaciated and the eyes were haunted, the smile had not changed.

His vision blurred, Harvey stood at attention and formally saluted. Only his words revealed his true feelings. "Welcome home, Joe."

Shadowed eyes scanned the surrounding faces. "You don't know how good it feels to be home, Harvey."

With Doctor Kaiser's help from inside the plane and Stovall's and the ground crewman's assistance on the ground, Gallagher was gently lowered from the plane. Almost pushing Kaiser out of his way, Komansky quickly followed, coming close to falling in his haste.

Harvey had to smile at the sergeant's obvious protectiveness. Though barely able to stand unaided himself, he wouldn't leave the colonel's side. Harvey had read the report of their two month long ordeal. It had been factual and to the point. What it hadn't said but what Stovall instinctively knew was that Gallagher was alive only because Sergeant Alexander Komansky had been at his side.

With Doctor Kaiser's gently but firm guidance, Gallagher was led to an ambulance. The smiles and greetings of the men who had served under him followed. Once again, finding himself blinking back tears, Harvey carefully gripped Komansky's arm. "Come on, Sandy, once you get settled at the hospital, I'll see if I can find you a big, juicy steak."

"Major, that's the best offer I've had in months."

Kaiser's steps didn't falter as he turned his head. "Belay that, Major. It will be at least another week before their stomachs will digest anything more solid than soup."

"A week!" Komansky protested. "My teeth are going to forget how to chew."

"Just think how much fun you'll have retraining them," Kaiser unsympathetically replied.

"Some homecoming."

His eyes focused longingly on the cockpit of the B-17, Gallagher nodded. "Isn't it great?"

In a voice so low only Harvey could hear, Britt spoke for the first time. "It is for us, Joe. It is for us."

 

EPILOGUE

"Stop that, Harvey," General Britt ordered.

Reluctantly, Stovall stopped pacing the short hospital corridor and went to stand beside the general. Kaiser had said they could see Joe once he got him settled. So Harvey waited impatiently for the moment he had dreamed about almost every night for two months. The nightmare of those same months was deeply etched on a familiar thin face. The changes on the outside were drastic but reversible. Hopefully, the changes on the inside would be equally easy to mend.

Doctor Kaiser finally slipped through the door. As he eased it closed behind him, Britt asked, "Can we see Joe now?"

"I'm sorry, General, Joe fell asleep even before his head hit the pillow."

"How long will he sleep?" The disappointment in the general's voice was clearly audible.

"There's no saying for certain. He really wasn't strong enough to travel. But of course he wouldn't listen to me when I suggested he wait another week before we bring him home."

"After all he's been through, can you blame him?" Komansky's voice was hoarse but firm as he joined the trio.

"What are you doing out of bed, Sergeant?" demanded Kaiser, crossing to where Sandy was leaning against the door frame to the main ward.

"I have to talk to General Britt, sir."

"It can wait 'til you've gotten some rest."

"No sir, it can't."

Obviously impressed by the young man's determination, Britt asked, "Can we use your office, Doctor?"

"Why not?" muttered Kaiser. "I never get to."

Quickly crossing to the young gunner's side, Harvey helped the doctor lead Sandy into the small office and seat him in the only chair available. Though he knew standing made General Britt's leg ache, Harvey was surprised when the general didn't protest.

"All right, Sergeant, what's so important it couldn't wait a few hours?" inquired Britt.

"Colonel Gallagher's life, sir."

"I think you better be a little more specific, Sergeant," Britt ordered, his alarm at the revelation clearly apparent on his face. "Nowhere in your report does it mention that Colonel Gallagher's life is in danger."

"No, sir, that's because the colonel dictated most of it. What he didn't mention was that I took a paper from General von Datz' pocket. A paper ordering the colonel's execution."

"What!"

Retrieving the paper from the pocket of his robe, Komansky handed it to the general. "It's in German, but a British infantry lieutenant confirmed my suspicions. It is an order to execute Colonel Gallagher."

"Major Stovall, get someone in here who can read German," ordered Britt.

"That won't be necessary, Major." Harvey had barely taken a step before Kaiser's words stopped him. "I can read German." Kaiser took the paper from Britt's hand and unfolded it. Even as he read, he reaffirmed Komansky's fear. "Sandy's right, General. This letter gave von Datz complete autonomy in his dealings with Joe."

"Surely it doesn't include murder," protested Britt.

"That and worse, sir."

Komansky's already pale features almost seemed to become translucent as he earnestly appealed, "You can't let the Skipper fly anymore, sir. If he gets shot down again, they'll kill him."

"Don't worry, Sergeant," soothed Britt. "Joe Gallagher's combat flying days are over, as are yours if you so choose."

"He does." Stovall hastily replied, ignoring the puzzled look on Komansky's face. Later, Harvey would explain to his young friend why he didn't want him to fly any more. Sandy would hear about Roberts and the others and he would know that the 918th had lost more than its commanding officer when Gallagher had been shot down.

"It might not be easy keeping Joe on the ground, General," Kaiser pointed out. "Did you see the expression on his face when he looked up into the cockpit of that B-17?"

"Joe is a colonel. I'm a two-star general. When he gets three stars, he can ignore my orders. Until that time, he will obey them or find himself in the brig."

"The last time Joe disobeyed your orders," reminded Kaiser, "he received a commendation."

"It wasn't at my instigation," Britt hastily asserted.

"Maybe," said Stovall, "if we're lucky, the war will be over by the time Joe's well enough to fly again."

"We couldn't be that lucky," sighed Britt.


End file.
